Chapter 1 - The Nurse Who Said No
Six nurses had quit in five days before I walked into Dominic Rossi’s bedroom and found blood soaking through Egyptian cotton sheets. Everyone warned me the wounded mafia boss was determined to bleed himself to death, but with rent due Monday and almost nothing left in my bank account, fear had become a luxury I could no longer afford.
Rain hammered my rusted sedan as I stopped outside the wrought-iron gates of the Rossi estate.
The mansion rose above the mountainside like a fortress—stone walls, ten-foot gates, clipped hedges, and not a single flower anywhere. My car coughed once after I killed the engine, then died like it had finally given up on me too.
A man in a black suit tapped on my window.
“Nora Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Leo. I manage the household.”
His eyes moved toward my car with barely disguised disapproval. “Leave it. Someone will move it somewhere less visible.”
I grabbed my canvas duffel and stepped into the rain.
My sneakers soaked through before I reached the front steps.
Leo stopped beneath the portico. “You need to understand the rules before you go inside.”
I adjusted the strap digging into my shoulder.
“Rule one: you do not ask how Mr. Rossi was injured. Rule two: you speak only when he speaks to you.”
He paused.
“Rule three: whatever he tells you to do, you do it.”
I stared at him. “I was told he has a gunshot wound in his right shoulder and a secondary infection.”
“He does.”
“And the previous nurses?”
Leo’s expression hardened.
“One tried changing his dressing while he slept. He woke up and threw a lamp at her.”
My stomach tightened.
“She needed twelve stitches.”
Another nurse had reportedly left crying.
One had left with a broken wrist.
Dominic Rossi apparently didn’t want treatment.
He wanted everyone gone.
Leo looked at me carefully. “Weak stomach?”
“I have rent due Monday.”
That was the truth.
Three months earlier, I had still been working nights in a downtown emergency room. Then budget cuts erased my position, my savings disappeared into bills, and an eviction notice appeared on my apartment door.
“I can handle blood,” I said.
Leo gave one short nod.
Inside, the mansion was unnaturally silent.
Lemon polish covered almost every scent.
Almost.
Underneath it was something metallic.
Blood.
I recognized it immediately.
Leo led me upstairs and stopped outside the master suite.
“If you need me, press the call button.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Only for an emergency.”
“A bad mood doesn’t count?”
“It does not.”
Then he left me alone.
My heartbeat became louder with every step toward the double doors.
I didn’t knock.
Nobody had told me to.
The bedroom was almost completely dark when I entered, except for a thin strip of gray daylight cutting through heavy curtains.
Heat hit me immediately.
The room felt like an oven.
Then a voice came from somewhere near the bed.
“Get out.”
Low.
Hoarse.
Dangerous.
My eyes adjusted.
Dominic Rossi lay against dark pillows, shirtless from the waist up, one shoulder wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Sweat covered his skin, his face was pale beneath dark stubble, and even half-dead, he looked like the kind of man who had spent his entire life being obeyed.
I put my duffel on the floor.
“No.”
Silence.
His eyes opened fully.
Nobody had warned me what happened when Dominic Rossi heard that word.
And judging by the way his expression changed, nobody had ever been foolish enough to say it twice.
“Say that again.”
“No.”
His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t amusement.
“You have thirty seconds to leave my room.”
“I need ten minutes to check your wound.”
“You have twenty-five seconds.”
I walked toward the bed.
His left hand disappeared beneath the blanket.
I stopped.
“Is there a gun under there?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. I prefer to know what might kill me before I start a shift.”
For the first time, something like surprise crossed his face.
Then he drew a black pistol from beneath the sheet and set it on the nightstand.
Not far away.
But no longer hidden.
“Happy?”
“Not especially.”
I pulled on gloves.
His bandage was soaked through.
“How long since this was changed?”
No answer.
I looked at him.
“Dominic.”
His gaze snapped to mine.
“Mr. Rossi.”
“I’m the one about to peel dried gauze off your shoulder. Formality seems inefficient.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“Yesterday.”
“That’s a lie.”
His expression went cold again.
I leaned closer to the dressing without touching it.
The skin around the wound was swollen and angry red. There was a faint sweet, rotten odor underneath the blood.
Infection.
Bad one.
“What antibiotics are you on?”
“Whatever the doctor left.”
“Which doctor?”
“Bellini.”
I knew the name.
Dr. Carlo Bellini was a private surgeon who treated wealthy patients who did not enjoy hospital paperwork.
I had seen him twice at the emergency room.
Both times he acted like every nurse in the building was furniture.
“Where are the medications?”
Dominic nodded toward the cabinet.
I opened it.
Painkillers.
Antibiotics.
Anti-inflammatory medication.
Sedatives.
Too many bottles.
I checked labels.
Something felt wrong.
The antibiotic dose was low for the infection I was looking at.
Worse, the prescription date was five days old.
“You should be improving.”
“I’m not.”
“I noticed.”
His eyes narrowed.
I ignored him and removed the dressing.
He swore.
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You are flexing every muscle like you plan to fight the bandage.”
“It’s winning.”
I almost laughed.
The gauze came away.
Then I stopped.
A small dark channel ran beside the main wound.
Not from the bullet.
A drain site.
But there was no drain.
“Who removed the surgical drain?”
Dominic looked at me.
“What drain?”
My stomach dropped.
“You had one.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I pointed without touching.
“This mark. Someone placed a drain after surgery, and someone removed it.”
He stared at the wound as if he could somehow see it.
“Bellini never mentioned one.”
I checked the bedside chart.
There was no documentation.
Nothing.
I looked at Dominic.
“Where were you treated?”
“Here.”
“Not a hospital?”
“No.”
“Who operated?”
“Bellini and two assistants.”
“When?”
“Five days ago.”
Five days.
Six nurses quitting.
Bleeding.
Fever.
Missing drain.
Underdosed antibiotics.
My instincts started screaming.
“What happened to the bullet?”
“Removed.”
“Did you see it?”
He stared.
“No.”
I cleaned the wound carefully.
Under the crusted blood, the incision looked partially reopened.
Then my gloved finger felt something hard beneath swollen tissue near the collarbone.
Dominic flinched.
“What?”
“There’s something in there.”
His expression sharpened.
“The bullet?”
“I don’t know.”
I took a penlight and looked closer.
A metallic edge.
Tiny.
Fragment.
Possibly bone.
Possibly bullet.
But the infection was worse than either.
“You need imaging.”
“No.”
“You need a hospital.”
“No.”
“You may need surgery again.”
“No.”
I stepped back.
“You’re very committed to that word for someone who objected when I used it.”
He gave me a tired glare.
“I don’t go to hospitals.”
“Why?”
“That violates rule one.”
“Different question.”
“No.”
His breathing had changed.
Shallow.
Fast.
I put two fingers against his wrist.
Pulse racing.
“Your fever is probably over a hundred and three.”
“I’ve been hotter.”
“That line probably works better when you’re not septic.”
His face changed.
“Septic?”
“You have fever, a badly infected gunshot wound, tachycardia, and possibly retained material. If the infection reaches your bloodstream, your money, reputation, and armed men downstairs won’t matter.”
He looked toward the window.
For the first time, Dominic Rossi seemed less angry than tired.
“So let it.”
The words were quiet.
I froze.
“What?”
He closed his eyes.
“I said let it.”
There it was.
The thing the other nurses had probably seen and never said out loud.
He wasn’t refusing treatment because he hated hospitals.
He was refusing because some part of him wanted to die.
I removed my gloves.
“Fine.”
His eyes opened.
“Fine?”
“If you want to die, that’s your choice.”
He stared at me.
“But you’re not using me to do it.”
I picked up my duffel.
His voice sharpened.
“Where are you going?”
“To tell Leo I won’t participate in negligent care.”
“You need the job.”
I stopped.
He had heard more than I wanted him to know.
“Yes.”
“Then stay.”
“Not if staying means watching you bleed because you’re too stubborn to admit you want help.”
His jaw tightened.
“I don’t want help.”
“Then why did you let me remove the bandage?”
Silence.
I waited.
Dominic looked at the blood on the gauze.
Then at me.
Finally:
“What would you do?”
“If you were anyone else?”
“Yes.”
“Call an ambulance.”
His mouth hardened.
“And if that is not an option?”
“I’d call a surgeon I trust, get portable imaging, blood cultures, IV antibiotics, and find out why your treatment has been so bad.”
His gaze stayed on mine.
“You know a surgeon?”
“I know an ER physician who owes me a favor and hates Bellini.”
That earned the smallest real smile.
“What does the favor cost?”
“Probably pizza.”
“Cheap.”
“I’m not.”
The smile vanished but something warmer stayed in his eyes.
“Call them.”
I took out my phone.
Before I could dial, the bedroom door opened.
Dr. Carlo Bellini walked in carrying a leather medical bag.
He stopped when he saw the removed dressing.
Then his face changed when he saw me.
“Nora Hayes.”
I knew immediately he remembered me.
And I remembered why.
Six months earlier, I had filed an internal complaint after Bellini pressured our ER to discharge a patient before a dangerous postoperative infection was ruled out.
The complaint had gone nowhere.
But Bellini had never forgotten my name.
He looked at Dominic.
“Who allowed her to touch the wound?”
Dominic’s voice turned cold.
“I did.”
Bellini stared at the open incision.
Then at me.
“You’re done here.”
I looked at Dominic.
He said nothing.
For one terrible second, I thought fear or loyalty would win.
Then Dominic reached for the pistol on his nightstand.
Not aiming.
Just resting his hand on it.
“My nurse stays.”
May you like
Bellini went pale.
And I realized the most dangerous thing in that room might not be Dominic Rossi at all.
